


Man Flu x Two

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms
Genre: Illnesses, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7480542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill for Jonathan and Gilbert having Man Flu and being quite competitive about who's iller and can cough louder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Flu x Two

It was safe to say that neither of them were well-adapted to taking care of someone unwell.

Sharing food, magic, household tasks, and--eventually---each other's beds had been the strongest influence on their state of accord. Neither of them liked to deal with the other one in a bad mood, and Jonathan was always willing to approach in the name of friendly conversation. As for Mr Norrell, he could occasionally hold a grudge for longer, but after a while in his own cold bed, he would usually make an approach, being appreciative of the pleasures of the flesh. Also, although he did not say so, Jonathan was fairly sure he liked the company and cuddling up too. Every time they had had, say, a disagreement on magical theory or Mr Norrell's hand-wringing helplessness when it came to cooking their simple meals, and Jonathan turned his back in bed, Mr Norrell would come up to him. Although such a move frequently turned amorous. Even when Jonathan said, "I'm not in the mood to fuck," Mr Norrell would creep up quietly behind to nestle at his back, often kissing his neck. Sometimes this was seduction, at other times an apology; it was hard to tell which, although Mr Norrell took great offence to Jonathan guessing wrong, and would prickle up and turn his own back. 

Then it was simply easier to manage cooking, housework, and magic, with help. Mr Norrell refused to cook any thing, but he also didn't leave crusted plates with food burnt on for a week (Jonathan believed he had done sufficient if he left them in water, possibly thinking anything harmful would leach away if he left it long enough). Jonathan was better at thinking up new spells (Mr Norrell would sometimes say that he had fallen in love when he knew Jonathan could be so original) but Mr Norrell was better at 'not making a mess with them', and taking down notes. Jonathan was simply glad that he didn't have to take notes, since he had no gift for exactitude. Even Jonathan couldn't read his own notes a month later, although he said this was because they rotted down while he wasn't looking. 

Nothing particularly horrible happened at first with what Jonathan called "the Fairy 'Flu". Both of them developed a purple rash. Neither of them knew enough to feel wary of this, and Mr Norrell privately thought it had a slight and attractive resemblance to his lover's purple waistcoat. They ended the evening in bed, with Mr Norrell pleasuring Jonathan adoringly with his mouth, and Jonathan returning the favour. They might not have done this if they had realised they were about to fall prey to a disease--but both of them later thought, "it was lovely, and if it was going to be the last time for a week, maybe it was worth it."

 

The next morning, Jonathan retreated to his own bed with a terrible cough.

It didn't take Mr Norrell long to develop his own, although he would never admit to not wanting to get up and cook or make tea. 

By the end of the morning's practicing, both of them had a particularly hacking cough exacerbated by essentially coughing _at_ each other. Even though they were next door, they had to make an effort. 

After one particularly tortured cough on Mr Norrell's part, Jonathan got up and said, "All right! All right! I can bear it no longer. As long as you stop when I make the tea."

There was an immediate, slightly smug, silence. 

Jonathan sighed. He didn't particularly want to make his friend's horrible gruel, especially since Mr Norrell frequently decided it was unsatisfactory according to completely mystifying rules--too rich one day, too thin the next, also varying by flavour. But he knew where the tea was, and how Mr Norrell liked that (so faint it had barely seen the tea-leaf), and if Mr Norrell had been straining his throat (legitimately or not), he might be in need of a drink. Also, the most expeditious way to achieve tea strong enough for himself was to make it, because when he was being kind, Mr Norrell could not be induced to understand that Jonathan preferred tea to taste of tea.

He could hear Mr Norrell remembering to start coughing again as he came upstairs, and said, "Stop it, Gilbert, or you will make yourself ill."

"I _am_ ill," said Mr Norrell crossly, but he drank the tea in short sips and settled back on the pillow. 

Jonathan said, "I suppose you might be. Normally, you're asking me to help you with your buttons by now, and getting ready to go down to the library."

Mr Norrell coughed feebly. "I think I am. I don't even think I want to go and take notes, and I usually don't find that too exacting."

So Jonathan left him to sleep and made himself some bread and cheese. Then, being bored, he settled to an activity his ex-tutor would consider most virtuous: he went and catalogued one of the remaining shelves of the library. 

Mr Norrell was less fretful when he came back, and praised him effusively.

"Don't expect me to do it when you're well enough," said Jonathan. "Library management isn't my strong suit."

But Mr Norrell was very interested to see that Jonathan had found a book he had never seen in his life. 

"I'm sure Childermass might have put something on the shelf sometimes without you entering it into your list," said Jonathan. 

"Absolutely not!" said Mr Norrell, shocked. "I have never been so slipshod with any of my books."

Apparently it was a book _On the Lawes, Magick and Nature of the Fairy Landes._ This was important. Mr Norrell had never sought knowledge of Faerie for the simple reason he had no intention of meddling with it. Fairies who made Christians their business were one thing; he found out about that, to his later considerable regret, but a Christian of the modern age seemed hardly likely to stumble into Faerie, so he had not made such a book a priority. Actually, Childermass had told him there was such a book owned by the York Society, and this had caused both of them some unkind laughter, since it seemed so unlikely to do any body any good. Let that be a lesson to him! It would have been a lot of use to him in the Lady Pole business, and still more so now. His face lit for a moment with wonder. "It's my belief this is a stray feather left for us from the chaos of ravens. Perhaps John Uskglass had enough pity on me to realise that if books are how I learn, I need one adapted to my current world."

Speaking for so long really did bring on Mr Norrell's cough, and Jonathan was beginning to feel a little chilly himself, so they retired to separate beds. 

Jonathan tried coughing piteously at about dinner time, when he really didn't want to move. After about an hour, when he was considering going to sleep without eating, Mr Norrell came in and said, "I suppose you do not have such a thing as food which is edible cold?"

Jonathan sighed. He himself was well accustomed to the magically-equipped pantry. When the Raven King had transformed their situation to one which was not an entire curse, he had apparently arranged for food to appear in their pantry as necessary. Mr Norrell, with his disinclination for cooking and tendency to forget to eat meals, had not discovered this. So Jonathan explained that, and said he thought there was the remainder of a cold chicken in the pantry, and told Mr Norrell how to boil potatoes. 

The boiled potatoes were not a success, but to Jonathan's surprise, instead of going off to sulk, Mr Norrell cut some bread and found some butter. He even sliced some tomatoes for Jonathan, since Jonathan had told him they did not require cooking, but took none for himself. 

The resulting repast looked somewhat dilapidated, since Mr Norrell had never carved his own fowl, but did his best to pull the chicken off the bone by scraping with the knife. Also, the slices of bread and tomato were uneven. 

But Jonathan had to admit it was not a bad meal--and much better than he would have expected from Mr Norrell as cook. 

"Do take a little tomato, sir," he suggested. "When I was on the Peninsula..." (he pretended not to see Mr Norrell casting his eyes up to heaven at the familiar phrase) "it was considered a most healthful vegetable. Or fruit," he added vaguely. 

Mr Norrell did not look with enthusiasm on the tomatoes, because plants of the nightshade family had better be left severely alone, but wished he had a sweet ripe pear to eat after dinner. 

Feeling just a little improved by the meal, Jonathan went to the pear-tree and harvested it. One of the odd benefits (or otherwise) of Faerie was that plants fruited when they felt like it, and there was a basketful. 

Mr Norrell was asleep in his chair. 

Jonathan sighed loudly, and pushed a ripe pear into Mr Norrell's hand. He'd asked for it, serve him right if he ended up with fruit juice all over. 

Mr Norrell woke up, and gave him a smile of great sweetness. "Jonathan! You remembered!" He ate it slowly, pausing to lick the juice off his fingers, and Jonathan wished he were feeling better. Normally, he rather liked watching Mr Norrell do things like that. 

Mr Norrell said, "I wish I felt better. Usually that sets you off. Amorously, I mean," he added unnecessarily. 

"I'm not going to be up to much in the foreseeable, I'm afraid," said Jonathan. He felt tired, and as though it wouldn't take much to set off his cough. 

Mr Norrell shuddered slightly. "I don't even find the thought of it appealing at the moment, and I usually like thinking of you, even when I am not at my best."

Feeling improved by dinner, though, he set off to read his Fairy book. Jonathan kept him company for a while. He did not know when Jonathan had left, because he was absent-mindedly addressing remarks to Jonathan without waiting for a response, as usual. 

But he did not find Jonathan in any of the rooms of the house. This was worrying. He called for him down the garden, and eventually heard a faint reply from the privy. He knocked at the door, and was relieved to find Jonathan had merely fallen asleep in a sudden fit of tiredness. He waited outside while Jonathan set himself to rights, then gave him his arm up the garden. 

Soon, Jonathan was wrapped up warmly in the better bed, which happened to be Mr Norrell's, protesting about not being allowed to get tea. 

"As to that, Jonathan, I am entirely capable of making tea," said Mr Norrell, with sublime confidence. It was one of the few culinary activities he engaged in, and he knew where the little lacquered box of tea was, and how to measure out half a level teaspoon per pot. 

"Yes, Gilbert, but you only make _your_ sort of tea!" said Jonathan. 

Mr Norrell had some pity on him, and brought a pot of strong tea with milk and sugar on a tray. Well, what _he_ thought of as strong tea and Jonathan might have characterised as "less weak", anyway.

Jonathan did drink it without reproach. 

Unfortunately, three large cups of tea had him deciding to go to the privy again. 

"Jonathan, be sensible! You are not dressed--and you are far too ill!"

Jonathan used the chamber-pot and went back to bed, and Mr Norrell took the covered chamber-pot down to the privy and tipped it in. Since they arrived here, Jonathan had cast a spell to make the privy vanish the contents to some distant underground pit. Mr Norrell tipped clean fresh ash in out of habit (although this was less useful when the contents vanished anyway), and went to wash the chamber-pot in hot water. At least they had the spell on the privy, and also a spell for turning cold water hot. These details were much the best at making their situation without servants bearable, although they still had to deal with carrying the water they needed to heat.

 

 

The next day, Jonathan was pale and uncommunicative. 

Mr Norrell (happening not to feel too unwell himself) assumed Jonathan just felt like having a quiet day, until, from his perch in the library, he heard distant vomiting.

"Oh, _poor_ Jonathan! Are you quite all right?" he called from the bottom of the stairs. 

After a few minutes, Jonathan said, "Not too bad, sir," and came to wash the bucket out. He looked a rather better colour. Mr Norrell was relieved, and asked him if he could take a little food. 

"Bacon and eggs would be capital, my dear Gilbert."

Mr Norrell wrung his hands at the thought of cooking, let alone such rich food on a recently-emptied stomach. 

"Nothing simpler! It is just the sort of thing I have cooked in Portugal when we had the fortune to have the wherewithal. I shall manage very well," Jonathan said. "I'd be obliged if you did your own gruel, though. I might wish to have a quiet sit-down after my own breakfast in the interests of it not reappearing if I strain my system."

"Of course, of course!" said Mr Norrell, wringing his hands again. He had never treated being sick quite as casually himself. 

Jonathan seemed very happy with his bacon and eggs.

Mr Norrell took three goes at the gruel. The first was too runny, and the second had a tough and displeasing consistency. The third was vaguely adequate, with enough honey. 

As he sat down to eat it, he said, "I'm beginning to see why you never wash up. There are simply too many utensils." He looked crossly at the three saucepans, the five spoons, and the honey smears and small heaps of oats on the kitchen table, but then cleared up anyway, and went to the library. 

Jonathan had been thinking, _I'm beginning to see why you never cook, if you make that bad a fist of it._ He was careful to say no such thing to Mr Norrell. It would be the clearest way of making sure his lover never tried, and never learned.

Instead, he had a really _good_ idea for a spell to help with the cookery. Something that might mean even Gilbert Norrell did some of it inside the next month, without poisoning either of them. It shouldn't take more than, oh, a few hours, to break the back of the thing. He happily started scrawling on everything not-a-book he could find, including the tablecloth and several napkins (he had the grace to use charcoal on the good linen). Various fruits in the fruit bowl ended up somewhat cooked in the course of the experiments, and so did a number of inedible things. There was an inexplicable smell of burnt feathers. 

In short, when Mr Norrell came back in to see what he was doing, after a few hours in the library with the very informative book about Faerie, Jonathan had been having immense fun, burnt off both his eyebrows, and failed to realise he was covered in soot.

Mr Norrell clucked at him crossly about all this, and Jonathan got up, swayed, and gradually fell down in a faint. 

Mr Norrell was amazed that he managed to get Jonathan to his bed, and without recourse to magic he might never have managed it. 

Unfortunately, Jonathan really had to be ill then. This time, Mr Norrell had to carry the bucket out and wash it, which nearly affected him similarly. 

When he came back, Jonathan had used the chamber-pot. This was not a terrible problem in itself: most people were accustomed to using the chamber-pot in their own bedrooms in inclement weather, but the illness had gone to his digestion. What should be solid was liquid, and had a remarkably offensive odour. 

"Sir, I can only offer my most heartfelt apologies. I am sure this must be very distressing to a fastidious man." He really did look sorry, as well as sorry-for-himself. 

Mr Norrell gulped, covered the chamber-pot, and rushed it to the privy, having recourse to a spell to manage to empty it. Then he went back to the house for soap and the spare bucket, got some water from the beck, and used the hot-water spell to make sure everything was as clean as could be managed.

When he came back, Jonathan had used the bucket for both purposes, which was possibly the low point of Mr Norrell's day, and was probably not much fun for Jonathan either.

After a further scene of cleaning by the privy, Mr Norrell came back. Jonathan lay in bed, and Mr Norrell sat at his bedside, both looking slightly mistrustful. Mr Norrell doubted he would be able to withstand another of Jonathan's attacks without coming out in sympathy. Jonathan had so little experience of older authority-figures treating him with the least kindness that he had to remind himself that this was petty, fussy, awkward, (surprisingly sweet) Gilbert, not his father. Gilbert, who would never have harmed him unless he'd been frightened into it, and had never treated him with that chilling contempt that was his father's habit. 

Suddenly, an idea struck Mr Norrell. Jonathan had invented an excellent spell for vanishing the contents of the privy. This was something which would probably not have occurred to Mr Norrell. Very few of the magicians in his books had dealt with personal hygiene, and he had never treated that misapprehension about laundry as a reason to learn such a spell--until very recently he was perfectly happy paying for good service rather than struggling to imitate it badly with his art. But given what Jonathan had cast, he could easily see a way to add a location and limitation so that the chamber-pot functioned in the same way. He could only wish the idea had occurred to him earlier!

When he had the spell prepared, he took it back to Jonathan, who was visibly trying to master his stomach. 

"I...I feared you had given up in disgust, sir," Jonathan managed. 

"Well, who else was there to do it?" said Mr Norrell. "I must admit I spent a while trying to figure out how to find someone else to do it, but we don't have a household, and what we do have is me. So I thought of a spell to make things easier, based on your own. I cannot conceive why I was so dull-witted not to consider it earlier!" Mr Norrell tutted and bustled around. "It is a variant on the spell you cast on the privy, so that these other vessels will do the same thing."

Mr Norrell cast it on both bucket and chamber-pot--not a moment too soon, as Jonathan then leaned over and heaved into the bucket. Mr Norrell brought him water to rinse his mouth out and tea to drink. 

Jonathan was so grateful he didn't even mention how little difference he found between the water and the tea. 

"Such a useful spell," said Mr Norrell. "I am not _quite_ sure it is a spell fit for a gentleman, and I should not like to publish it, but it is certainly going to make our lives easier in this situation."

After a while of resting, the tea made a swift return. 

Mr Norrell went to find the marked candle they used as a timer, and more fresh water in case that was easier to drink. 

After about four hours, whatever Jonathan drank settled in him. 

At least Jonathan was now exhausted enough not to declare he was perfectly well and rush into any thing. "Either some of the eggs were past their best, or I simply over-tired myself," he admitted.

Mr Norrell let him rest, and went and made himself more gruel for dinner. Possibly it was getting easier. He put plenty of honey on it to cheer himself up: it was a bit miserable sitting here without Jonathan and remembering what an awful day Jonathan must have had. 

Eventually, he brought Jonathan weak sweet tea. 

Jonathan did not want it. "All I need right now, Gilbert, is to sleep. Not your horrible weak tea that doesn't taste of anything. Just rest."

Mr Norrell sat and rocked in the chair to calm himself: the right thing was to leave poor Jonathan to rest; yet that conflicted with the advice the eminently-sensible Childermass had given him when he was unwell; yet it might be considered rude and hurtful to go against Jonathan's wishes; yet Childermass had implied not drinking anything when one was sick was very bad, and possibly water didn't count if it didn't stay down. 

"Stop fidgeting, sir, and let me rest," said Jonathan tiredly. 

"But I don't know what to do!" Mr Norrell wailed, picking up the large teapot and putting it down again on the warming-place. 

"But I was just telling you what I would like, Gilbert."

Mr Norrell brought himself to explain. 

"Well, if you'll let me sleep if I drink it, the sensible thing is that I drink it," said Jonathan, sounding somewhat less annoyed.

"Just drink it in sips, Jonathan," said Mr Norrell, and both of them together managed to get him up in bed enough to drink it. 

Jonathan drank it in sips. It was indeed insipid, and sweet, but he had to admit sweet didn't seem quite so bad on his tender stomach as good strong tea might have been, and didn't make his stomach lurch like the cold water. Just temporarily. 

He managed to drink some more tea over the course of the evening, and then Mr Norrell said he could sleep, and he slept. 

 

 

The next day, Jonathan had recovered from the worst of it. He had simply needed to piss in the morning, which was a good sign that what he was drinking didn't go straight through him. 

"Is it too soon to consider eating, Jonathan?" said Mr Norrell, in the kitchen. 

"I think I might manage, sir. Lightly at first, if you please," said Jonathan. 

Mr Norrell fetched him some gruel. 

Jonathan looked at it, and sighed. 

Mr Norrell brought the gruel back with a wobbly smile drawn on it in honey. "My nurse used to do that when I was small to cheer me up," he said. "It occurred to me I might find it easier to do that for you than to adjust the flavouring. I believe we have cinnamon, but I have not the least idea how much people use."

"You could try asking me whether I actually _want_ to eat gruel," said Jonathan wearily. 

This honestly had not occurred to Mr Norrell, for whom gruel was a reliable comfort in times of illness or queasiness. But it was certainly ungrateful!

"Oh, well, if you're going to object to a perfectly-nice breakfast!" said Mr Norrell huffily, and sat down to eat it at once. This put him in a better humour, enough to ask what else would do. 

Apparently, dry toast with a tiny bit of salt and a scrape of butter for flavour would be much more to Jonathan's taste. Mr Norrell sighed, and used a spell to locate the toasting-fork, which Jonathan had taken into a spare room when he was on the outs with Mr Norrell about a book, and entirely forgotten about. Toast was provided, and nibbled at, and then Mr Norrell went to wash up all the utensils, and came back to find Jonathan wanted to get up. 

Jonathan should not be let out of bed yet, considering the last problem had arisen from his overdoing things when he wasn't really recovered. 

"Would you like me to read to you from Sutton-Grove?" Mr Norrell tried. When he was at less than his best, the comfort of that reliable friend was a help. 

"Please don't," said Jonathan, with a slight shudder. 

"I do not understand you, Jonathan," he said (more peevishly than he perhaps ought). 

"It's like Divinity," said Jonathan. "Very strict, and never my strong subject. Spends much too much time explaining what I shouldn't be doing. Long list after long list on what a magician should avoid, and not much about what I _should_ do."

Mr Norrell sniffed. "I'm sure I have no idea what you would prefer, or if it's suitable reading."

Jonathan reached under his pillow and drew out a thin, battered copy of _A Child's History of the Raven King._ "Would you believe I've still got this?"

Mr Norrell did not approve of that volume in the least. But it had survived many adventures with Jonathan, and maybe his own approval was not necessary in this case.

Mr Norrell sighed, and gave Jonathan a one-armed hug as he began to read. Although the tale he was reading would offer no comfort to Mr Norrell himself, Jonathan closed his eyes, and his face began to seem less lined. 

When Mr Norrell let his voice drone a little, and slow in the middle of a story, Jonathan yawned, and said, "Thanks, Bell, I think I can sleep now."

Irritably, Mr Norrell set the bookmark to mark his place, and thought, _Really, getting my name right should be the least I deserve!_

For dinner, he had some more of the bread and the last of the chicken, feeling a little miserable without company. Which seemed odd, considering how much of his life he'd spent wishing he could read a book while he was eating (because by habit he ate slowly and had run out of interest in the conversation in the first ten minutes). As soon as he'd come into his inheritance he'd set up a very fine book-stand in the dining-room, and a shielding-spell to protect pages (although he still limited his mealtime reading to duplicate volumes). Today he was reviewing some of his old notes over dinner, since they were easier to handle than books themselves, but apparently Jonathan had come to be a habit, because he was less than perfectly happy. 

He ate nearly half a tomato with his meal, hoping that in moderate quantities it was indeed "healthful". It wasn't too unpleasant, although it was squashy like a fruit but savoury like a vegetable. 

Mr Norrell was not quite sure whether he felt out-of-sorts because he missed having Jonathan to talk to, or because he was over-tired, or because the tomato had disagreed with him, but he went to bed. 

"Jonathan!" he called irritably, when he heard something from the next room. 

"Just going to find something to drink, Gilbert."

Mr Norrell felt even crosser because _he_ should be doing that, what if Jonathan wasn't warm enough. 

His dreams were filled with odd images of Jonathan barely-covered in an untied banyan, shivering as he tried to make tea using a new spell involving travelling to China. Mr Norrell expostulated that this was not sensible, no not at all, except he must be going along because he was shivering too, and where had his nice warm sleeping garments got to?

 

The next day, Jonathan was much better, and said so. 

"I'm sure I'm glad someone is," said Mr Norrell accusingly, and went back to bed, remarking that he had no need for breakfast.

Jonathan did some work on the cookery spell, but when he came back to Gilbert's bedroom (also because he would have liked to be told how clever he was), Gilbert was not the least inclined to talk about food. 

In fact, Mr Norrell said, "Oh, I _wish_ Childermass were here...", gulped, and put his head down. 

Jonathan tried rubbing his back soothingly, but Mr Norrell only said that was _worse,_ and called for the bucket.

Some time later, Mr Norrell was still leaning over the bucket and shivering. There had been no sounds of vomiting. 

"Should you try a little breakfast, sir? Toast?" Toast was very digestible, particularly without something rich. 

"I hate you," muttered Mr Norrell.

"I'm sure if you could bring yourself to eat just a little?"

"If I eat any thing, then I shall..." He gulped again. He really did look sick, and he was shivering. 

Jonathan said, "If you line your stomach, then cast up your accounts, sir, the worst is over and you can rest."

"No it isn't!" said Mr Norrell. "When I am unwell, it usually lasts some time."

Jonathan stroked his hair, which didn't make him feel sick. Well, didn't make him feel _more_ sick, because he lay down for a while on his side, huddled up with the blankets round him. 

Every so often he lurched up, gulping, and hung his head over the bucket. Then, after a while, he lay down again. 

"It comes over me in waves," Mr Norrell explained morosely. "I usually can't tell whether any thing is about to...come out, because I feel ill anyway. Sometimes I am sure I will be ill, and I feel very cold; the rest of the time I just want to rest, and I cannot even read, or be read to." He hated that. He always ended up lying there, unable to sleep, or do any thing else. 

After a while, Jonathan went to fetch a book to read, for himself, as watching Mr Norrell not-quite vomit wasn't much of a spectator sport. 

When he came back, Mr Norrell admitted to having been sick, a very little bile. "My mouth tastes horrible."

Jonathan went out again, and came back with a teapot of ridiculously-weak tea, and a glass of clean water. 

Mr Norrell said, "I'm not drinking _your_ tea."

"I'm not making you _my_ tea. Quite apart from your state of health, I have no desire to waste it on someone who won't appreciate it," said Jonathan. 

Mr Norrell needed a lot of coaxing to drink the tea. Then he was sick about three times over the next few hours, with a lot of leaning over the bucket and shivering. 

At one point, he asked Jonathan if he would go and look for little sweet ginger biscuits in the pantry.

To Jonathan's surprise, he found some, and to his further surprise Mr Norrell ate three. If one could call it eating to take an hour to nibble three biscuits between sips of tea. 

This seemed to be some sort of turning-point for Mr Norrell, and, with Jonathan stroking his hair, he finally fell asleep.

Jonathan went to bed, keeping the doors open between the two bedrooms. 

He let Mr Norrell sleep late the next day. 

 

 

Mr Norrell was still unwell, Jonathan could see that from his paleness. The nausea appeared to have passed, because he was no longer lurching for the bucket. Jonathan only needed to ask him six times if he could stand to eat before he said, "If you will stop troubling me about it, I shall try."

Jonathan said, "Well, I don't exactly _want_ to make your breakfast, in fact I never exactly _want_ to make your breakfast, I was just being nice, but if you'll feel more up-to-the-mark later I will try then." He was usually more diplomatic than that, but he usually hadn't spent a while with both of them feeling ill. Perhaps Mr Norrell needed to be left alone for a while. 

Jonathan's studies were interrupted by what he considered to be a theatrically-excessive burst of coughing. When Jonathan came back in, Mr Norrell said, "You're supposed to keep asking."

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?"

"Childermass always coaxed me a little if I'd been struggling," muttered Mr Norrell. 

Jonathan sighed. "Please tell me I don't have to feed it to you as if you were a baby bird."

Mr Norrell said, "You don't _have_ to do anything," and hunched over on his side, back turned to Jonathan. 

Jonathan spent a couple of hours reading, just to make the point that he didn't have to make breakfast, then carefully made up a bowl of sweet gruel. Just a bit of honey, no fussing with cream in case it was too rich. 

He coaxed Gilbert to sit up, but told him he was on his own as far as hand-feeding was concerned. 

Gilbert looked very doubtful, but grudgingly pronounced the food "acceptable" after one spoonful. His assessment rose to "very pleasant" after the rest, and he went so far as thanking Jonathan before lying down to rest. 

Jonathan went to see if there was a cold drink in the cupboard. He found something usefully fruity and diluted in a covered jug. He was not sure whether it was the result of a natural, Earthly fruit, but he cast a spell to discover if it was harmful in any way (the "in any way" including a few extra flourishes Mr Norrell had taught him that he would not have bothered with in the Christian lands) and it proved good. 

By mid-afternoon, Jonathan had finished his book, and passed a glass of fruit drink to Mr Norrell every so often when he sounded particularly fretful.

He was bored, but he was sure that if he did something more entertaining like working on a spell he would overtire himself again. He really wanted to cuddle up for a bit for company, but he didn't want to upset Norrell if he were trying to rest. 

By now, Norrell didn't seem to be trying hard enough to rest. 

He complained about crackling noises in his ears, about a sensation of pressure behind his right eye (which was watering), about having a hair in his mouth ( _where from?_ Jonathan wondered), and about a phantom pain or itch that seemed to migrate from one side of his body to the other.

Eventually, Jonathan stripped, got in, put his arms around his inconvenient lover from behind and said, "Now, _be still,_ Gilbert." 

Gilbert Norrell drew a quick, shaky breath, and the tension drained out of him somewhat. This was propitious, since Jonathan had no idea what to try if that didn't work. 

Both of them slept for some time, and then Jonathan went and prepared stew, using unexpected pork that might have appeared when the chicken had been finished, and the last of the tomatoes, as well as what few potatoes Mr Norrell had been good enough to leave from his boiling experiments. He was careful to cook the meat for longer than he would naturally do it, because Mr Norrell hated tough meat. 

Jonathan himself ate with enthusiasm; Mr Norrell managed the meat, liked the potatoes, but remarked, "I think this tastes of tomatoes, Jonathan."

There was a pause. Mr Norrell realised slowly that Jonathan was glaring at him. He thought for a while. Maybe Jonathan had been taking a lot of trouble taking care of him--and maybe it had seemed somewhat... _tactless_ , to say that. 

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I should not have said that." A graceless apology, since he was little in the habit of making any. But Jonathan, being generous, smiled and forgave him. 

 

The next day was better. Norrell said, "At least I can think something kinder to you than, 'Oh, I _wish_ Childermass were here! _He_ understands.'"

"I thought I was the one person you had ever been close to," said Jonathan, slightly hurt. He himself wasn't in that position with regards to Mr Norrell, and Mr Norrell had often expressed his jealousy. He would rather dislike the idea, not that Mr Norrell had A Past, but that he had lied about it by exaggerating his isolation. 

"Of course you are the only person I have ever been in love with. Although I cared about him, I suppose: it didn't occur to me to think about it, he was just...there, and he was the only intelligent person I had to talk to, most days. But you are certainly not the only person who has taken care of me." He put his hand on Jonathan's to communicate that now Jonathan was taking excellent care of him. 

"I thought you didn't think so much of him," said Jonathan. "Because he was a servant."

"Childermass was certainly not 'one of the servants'," said Mr Norrell indignantly.

"Well, I'm sure you did not regard him as one of your own class, did you?"

"No, of course not. Childermass was only...Childermass. He wasn't 'a servant', he was simply 'not a gentleman'." It was perfectly clear in Mr Norrell's mind. As a servant, Childermass had weaknesses, particularly in the matter of menial tasks and having a respectful attitude (by which he meant 'not embarrassing him in front of other gentry'). As a man of business with considerable intelligence, Childermass was excellent, and at the further personal skill of looking after his master when he was unwell, he was a nonpareil.

"I knew you sent him away, and you said at the time it was because of his attitude," said Jonathan. 

Mr Norrell sighed. "I am not surprised you think that. But before I came to London, I was much less troubled about respect: it was my own discomfort in such a great city, and Mr Lascelles' belief that I was neglecting my own consequence, that upset me. In fact it took Mr Lascelles considerable time to spread his own attitude about Childermass to me."

He leaned his head back on Jonathan's shoulder and continued. "In Hurtfew, I had no need to worry about Childermass mocking me or telling me not to do something, because I was free to arrange things as I chose in my own home. If we disagreed, I was as likely as not to go along with him in the end because he had a head for practicality, and that was exactly what I was worried about when I came to London: what if it was wrong somehow? What if someone _saw_ me deferring to Childermass and I ceased to be...respectable?"

"What did Childermass do when you were ill, sir?" Jonathan asked. 

"He was comforting, he let me rest. However inconvenient I might be, he would be patient with me, until I was better. Even the once I was sick on the carpet because I thought the fit had passed off. But he would always tell me I was allowed to eat little in a day but not eat nothing, and no matter how ill I felt I must take care to drink, otherwise it would be worse."

Which did explain Mr Norrell doing something so oddly nurturing as worrying whether he was drinking enough when _he_ had been ill. Mr Norrell did seem to like to follow rules, which made him feel more secure. 

"I'm having hot buttered rolls," said Jonathan. To his surprise, Mr Norrell simply said, "So am I, then."

Jonathan lifted an eyebrow. _"Not_ gruel?"

"If I were cooking for myself, or were still queasy. I know how to do gruel."

"Well, you're coming downstairs if you're better," said Jonathan, and waited for him to do what he could manage with dressing and ask for help with any tricky buttons. 

"I swear someone should invent a spell to fasten buttons!" muttered Mr Norrell. 

Jonathan whistled happily as he prepared the food. It lifted his spirits that it wasn't gruel, and it lifted his spirits that he had company for breakfast. 

Mr Norrell seemed to like it as well. They passed little pieces of buttered hot rolls from hand to hand and had a lively argument on the palatability of different kinds of spread. Mr Norrell was very pleased with sweet plum jam, but Jonathan preferred something quite uncivilised he had found in the pantry. It was a thin black paste, in an oddly-shaped dark little pot, and neither of them quite understood its antecedents. Jonathan relished its fine savoury flavour, but to Mr Norrell, it appeared to taste of nothing so much as pure salt, on its own, without actual food to take the savour of it. 

After breakfast, Jonathan found what he could of the spell he had been working on. It was nearly as coherent as he thought, once he assembled all the parts in the right order. 

"I'm making a spell to help you...us...with cooking," he said. 

Mr Norrell made a face indicative of having no interest in the subject of cookery, but a keen interest in spellwork. 

Jonathan started to read out at some speed. "You start it...like...this, and--see this bit?--If you make this gesture, a receipt including the things in the pantry will appear in writing in the air so you don't have to touch it with greasy fingers."

"In your handwriting?" asked Mr Norrell, in the hopeful tone of one who has discovered a loophole. 

"In the caster's handwriting, obviously, sir," said Jonathan. "But it's a nice bit of work? Isn't it?"

Irritably, Mr Norrell found he hadn't the heart to disparage it. "Quite creditable, Jonathan."

"Then if you put _this_ bit in _here_ \--whoosh!--I got the idea from something in Ormskirk, the oven lights and is ready."

"Put in fire-guards," interjected Mr Norrell, and Jonathan nodded his thanks and waited for Mr Norrell to go and find the right book. 

When he came back, and had applied the safety-spell, Jonathan said, "And in the step before this, which I forgot to mention, we should set a knife to chop the food, because that's one of the parts you find awkward?"

Mr Norrell nodded, and went back to the library to find the right spells. 

"Here are the limitations," he said when he came back. "'Peaceful use of blades, within the range of the chopping-board, limited to the specified ingredients and prohibited against cutting either of us.'"

"What would I do without you?" said Jonathan. 

"Be missing a finger, most likely," said Mr Norrell.

Jonathan grinned. "Possibly! But admit I'm good on the ideas."

"I admit I would probably have reverted to a state of nature by now and be trying to live on raw oats and cheese," said Mr Norrell, and put his hand on Jonathan's.

They spent the rest of the morning companionably in the library. 

Mr Norrell finished up Jonathan's write-up of the cookery spell, with both of them working together. 

After that, Jonathan relaxed with a book to read (one of the ones he would definitely not have been allowed to see when he was being tutored). It contained various spells about finding one's true-love, and for a wistful few minutes he entertained the prospect that he might some day (even in Faerie) run across someone who was simply _easier to love_ than Mr Norrell. After all, almost anyone would be. But no: he had somehow got into the thing even without noticing, and most of the thorns were on the outside. Inside Mr Norrell's love and attention, he felt...cherished. The book was interesting, though. 

Meanwhile Mr Norrell researched how things went on in Faerie. The spell on the pantry was probably what they called a "petty" spell, to his relief, one which provides for a condition without the caster needing to apply time or effort to it once it was set. He was grateful to the Raven King for his apparent kindness, but he did not feel up to much observation (particularly if it came in the form of oversized ravens' eyes or ominous dreams). Petty spells were often used to feed "visitors" from the Christian world; Fairies were so likely to wander away for years on end and forget them. Fairy "feasts" were frequent, of course, and itinerant food-sellers passed on the roads, but the food was often not considered in terms of its harmfulness to humans, who might be met with food which was actually rotten, poisoned (in human terms), or infused with unpleasant characteristics like extreme melancholy or disgust. Fairies did not have much care for the Christians they brought back, but these simple spells guarded against them coming back to them (in Fairy terms) a short amount of time later to find they had mysteriously died like a difficult flower to cultivate. 

Over tea, they chatted about their reading.

Mr Norrell had a few interesting and scholarly things to say about the love-spells Jonathan had been reading about. "It almost never works out, Jonathan. The magician may end up with a Fairy or demonic suitor presenting themselves, and that never ends well, because the suitor is invariably surpassingly beautiful and of very poor character. Snatched away is the least of it, there are eyewitness reports of the magician being _eaten."_

Jonathan shuddered, and mentally congratulated himself on his choice of not resorting to love-spells. 

"Then there are, say, maidens from China, who cannot speak a word of English. As soon as the magician can provide for a translation, they protest their situation in the strongest terms and refuse to be convinced that a 'ghost' or white person is their fate. It then becomes a battle of wills. He may...violate her, and even if she is only a woman and no Christian soul, I cannot believe that is right."

Jonathan agreed. He could not imagine being so cruel as to impose his will on a terrified woman, or indeed on any one. Arabella had been far from being the maidenly sort of maiden (she had started out as playful and inquisitive), but he had definitely met soldiers who talked about marital rights in a dislikeable fashion, as though it was only the husband's choice. 

"If he thinks to constrain the spell to England, there are many who are already married, and he finds himself having to argue that he is their one true fated love, often unsuccessfully. Cut down the idea of perfection so that one constrains by character and not by beauty, and the magician may end up with someone he can talk to who is not beautiful, or simply personally unattractive to him, or the wrong sex..."

There was a very long, very heavy silence, which was not generally likely once Mr Norrell had got started on one of his disquisitions. 

"If you mean to say, sir, all of those three things, we are in a different position," said Jonathan, very gently. 

"But I'm not beautiful, and you are, and you never would have asked for a man..." As he had suspected, Norrell, who had no guile, had simply tripped over that realisation rather than fishing for compliments. He sounded sulky rather than wheedling. 

"Not as a married man, no. It would not have occurred to me."

"I am only minimally attractive in any one's terms."

"Yet since we have ended up together in an awkward situation, we are coping remarkably well. There's no need to fret about who we would choose if we had lots of open choice--I'm sure you'd prefer a version of me who had a natural inclination to men, as I would prefer my wife if we had never been parted--because I must say I'm happy with the way it turned out."

Gilbert did not speak. He just reached up and embraced Jonathan awkwardly, kissing him on the corner of his mouth.

"Arabella never made me feel needed. I was always certain she would do excellently well without me, and indeed I hope she has. But you..." He gestured towards Gilbert. 

Gilbert said, "May I kiss you? Properly, I mean, or..."

Jonathan smiled widely and suggested, "Improperly? You don't usually ask before making a move."

"But we haven't...been intimate. For a week. Not that I'm counting."

"No, indeed," said Jonathan gravely. "It was only six days."

Mr Norrell looked as though he wasn't quite sure whether Jonathan was making game of him, so Jonathan gave him a hug, and said, "As if I'd forgotten any of your occasions of intimacy!"

Mr Norrell looked pleased, but said, "May we have a bath first?"

Jonathan knew Mr Norrell had fastidious habits, and he knew they'd both spent a week (about a week) being ill. 

They lugged the bathing-water to the kitchen. Soon there were several steaming bucketsful waiting as Jonathan dragged the bath in.

As he did that, Mr Norrell stealthily borrowed Jonathan's soap. As befitted a young, handsome gentleman with a certain amount of Town-bronze, his soap was actually scented. Mr Norrell's own soap was the one Uncle Haythornthwaite had used, and he merely characterised the smell as "clean".

Jonathan came back in, holding an exactly similar jar of exactly the same soap. He said, "I hadn't realised we used the same, sir."

"We don't," said Mr Norrell shortly. 

"But..." He gestured towards the matching pot. 

"I picked up your product inattentively," said Mr Norrell. "I believe the 'supplies' spell reaches further than the kitchen." 

Jonathan sniffed his neck. 

Mr Norrell moved away and glared. 

"You don't need to feel embarrassed, sir," said Jonathan. "You don't smell awful, and I think both of us might like a touch of something scented after a decidedly _un_ scented week."

Mr Norrell put the soap down beside the bath and cuddled Jonathan. "You don't smell unbearable, either, which is very lucky considering your very bad day,"

"As to that, when I got up that night for a drink, I felt better enough to wash. Although it was three parts freshening spell to one part water."

Mr Norrell bathed first, complaining about how uncomfortable it was to fit into the bath. "I know it's what Christians usually use, but now there's no-one to know, I would be so pleased if you discovered a way of emulating, say, the Roman style."

"I am not designing underfloor pipe-work and tiled rooms just so you can feel comfortable in a five-minute bath, Gilbert!"

"If I could stretch my old bones better I would take longer than that," said Mr Norrell. 

"Well, I'll consider it as a long-term project, then," said Jonathan, who never minded being engaged in a challenging "tinkering" idea, however long it took. Sometimes it might come to nothing, but he would always do his best. He would always learn something, even if it came out to "why not to". 

Soon it was his turn for the bath. Mr Norrell looked at him very lingeringly, although he thought he looked rather silly. A bath that Mr Norrell found somewhat cramped on his "old bones" was ill-designed for Jonathan's longer ones, although Jonathan could fold himself a bit better than Norrell could. Maybe he _should_ do something about that project, he thought, as he stood up. 

Not before getting that kiss. The sort of luscious, deep, sweet kiss that he suddenly couldn't believe he'd been missing, never even thinking about for days. A firm kiss, with tongues, and some squirming. 

He stood back, panting. 

"Why did you _stop?"_ said Mr Norrell accusingly, then, "And where's the towel?"

Jonathan cursed mildly, having remembered everything else, but said, "It's not as though we can suddenly make up a spell in dog-Latin--Towellus comeherius, say--and it will come flying through the air. Just shake yourself, for now."

"I do not 'just shake'! I would take a chill! I mean, another one, and we've only just got rid of the last."

Jonathan sighed, and pulled him close again. "Better?"

"Too cold," said Mr Norrell, although he stopped shivering.

Jonathan stroked him and held him until he seemed less chilled and the water-droplets were gone, then kissed him until Mr Norrell was making squeaking noises into his mouth. 

"I think we should go to bed," Jonathan said. "Best way to keep warm."

"You make a very good blanket, Jonathan," said Mr Norrell, when they were tucked up in bed. 

"Oh? Not all the other bedclothes as well?" said Jonathan, doing his best to kick one over-heated foot out from the depths. 

"Well, I certainly don't have any complaints..."

"For once!" added Jonathan. Sometimes he thought bedding the man was the only thing that ever stopped him complaining. 

" But...mmm, the bedclothes don't feel quite as nice. And they can't put their arms round me like that. And..."

Jonathan sighed mentally. Every time what Mr Norrell would no doubt call their "intimacies" was interrupted for a while, for whatever reason, he would go all blushing and shy, comparatively to how he might take it for granted when they were at it every day. 

"And..."

"I want to... _(something)_..." said Mr Norrell in a quick mumble, the last word quite inaudible. 

Jonathan tried lying down on him, and Mr Norrell muttered something crossly. Not that, then, although slowly frotting was often a pleasantly uncomplicated way of going at it. 

"Well then...stop me if I hit on something that appeals... Buggery?" He paused, but remembered that although it was Gilbert's frequent preference, Gilbert often didn't feel like it when he was shy (and in fact it had taken him months to admit to it to start with). "Sucking? Hands? Giving up and _sulking?"_ he added moodily as he started running out of ideas. Not that Jonathan was unadventurous, but he doubted his lover would suddenly come up with a thing for armpits. Or feet.

Mr Norrell muttered something again, and pushed at him. 

"Wrong position?" Jonathan rolled them quickly.

To Jonathan's surprise, Gilbert (blushing furiously) got up, reached for the lubricant, and pulled the blankets away.

Jonathan pulled his knees up accommodatingly. 

_"No,_ Jonathan," said Gilbert firmly. "I have no intention of letting you get accustomed to having the best bit, or becoming disputatious about it." He was still blushing. 

Jonathan sighed, and lay still. 

Gilbert reached for him, and buttered not his arse but his inner thighs with the salve. He added more salve to his own prick, and slid it into place, firmly using his hands to encourage Jonathan to squeeze, and finally muttered, _"That's_ it!" in a tone of great satisfaction. 

"You could have just asked," said Jonathan mildly. 

"Shut up, Jonathan...oh...couldn't remember..." 

Jonathan cupped his buttocks to encourage him to work.

"Mm," said Gilbert. 

Jonathan squeezed, and rubbed. 

Gilbert got a good rhythm going between his thighs, groaning a little with every thrust. 

"Good, is it?" whispered Jonathan, and nibbled his earlobe. 

Gilbert said, "Mm... _want_ it..."

"Don't you always," said Jonathan affectionately. "I love you being a slut for me."

"Feels like...if you touch me, I'll spend..."

So Jonathan pulled his buttocks open and rubbed him with fingertips, not quite going into him. 

Gilbert said, "Oh...oh...oh...oh!" and his prick shuddered and throbbed. It seemed to take him a long time to finish. 

Jonathan said curiously, "Was it that hard to admit to it?"

"Couldn't remember," Gilbert yawned, "what to call it, and I should like to know how I am expected to ask for something if I don't know what it is." He yawned again. "You have me now!" he insisted. 

"Can't I wait for you to wake up?" It was all much more enjoyable if both of them were awake to participate. 

Mr Norrell opened his thighs. "You need to have me," he said again, obstinately. 

"Well, I might as well see what was so much fun for you!" said Jonathan, agreeably, because it really _had_ been a long week, and thinking, _The lazy sod isn't doing any of the work,_ as Gilbert did not contribute much more than affectionate moaning and sleepy cuddling. He preferred to get more of his partner's attention. Like at least some of it. But that sweet rosy glow on Gilbert's face when he had been particularly thoroughly pleasured was quite appealing. He squeezed Gilbert's thighs together to get a good grip on himself, and experimented with kissing his mouth until Gilbert at least somewhat woke up, and complained about his roughness.

Interpreting this accurately as "you're keeping me awake when I'm trying to sleep", Jonathan said, "The sooner you try to engage with me, sir, the sooner you can rest again."

Gilbert muttered, "Oh, very well," and favoured him with some lovely kissing and embracing, plenty of shameless tongueing and stroking. Together with working himself vigorously between Gilbert's thighs, it did the trick nicely, and he groaned into Gilbert's mouth as he came.

He only just remembered to wipe up. However quickly they both went to sleep, Gilbert always complained of the mess unless Jonathan cleaned him (unfairly, this was the case even if Gilbert was the only one to make a mess).

Jonathan woke at dinner time, to an appetising smell coming from downstairs. He followed his nose, and was surprised to find a fine meal of roast beef and roasted vegetables, and even a large Yorkshire pudding each. 

"You're sure these are food?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at the vegetables. 

"I assume that if the spell provides them and the recipe describes them, Jonathan, they are probably edible." 

"Well. Well done for cooking, anyway!" said Jonathan, and dished himself up a good meal. 

Mr Norrell helped himself to a more moderate portion than Jonathan's, including one tomato and a cautious helping of cabbage. He left half the meat as "too chewy." He actually seemed to enjoy the roasted parsnips and the Yorkshire pudding, though, and took plenty of gravy and potatoes. 

They had an exotic sweet after their dinner, a warm cake, but flavoured with sweet chocolate instead of honey or jam. It was much too sweet for Jonathan's taste, but Gilbert (as might be suspected from his enjoyment of the hot drink) adored it, and ate three pieces. Jonathan took note of this for future times in which Gilbert's appetite might need coaxing. 

They were too full for either work or further amorous attentions, so when Jonathan had washed up (and Gilbert had sent back three serving-dishes that weren't up to standard, and Jonathan had argued back about that), they settled on the sopha and cuddled. 

Jonathan chuckled. "My wife always used to tell me Husband's Flu was a terrible thing. Even though we had servants, she used to mock me affectionately for demanding her attention every five minutes. Truth to tell, I just wanted to know she was taking care of me, so I'd sooner she brought me a handkerchief than Mary did."

"Mm?" said Gilbert rather sleepily. 

"It just occurred to me, Magician's Flu is much worse."

Gilbert laid his head on Jonathan's shoulder, and muttered, "Do shut up, Jonathan. You do talk nonsense."

"But we haven't even got servants to manage the heavy work."

"But we have spells for that, and I love you, so you don't have to worry about being taken care of," said Gilbert simply. He yawned, and said, "I'm too tired to go to bed."

Jonathan sighed, and cast a spell to make Gilbert light enough to carry to bed easily, because he knew that Gilbert would awaken in a terrible mood if he slept on the sopha. "I love you too, you inconvenient thing," he said, as he picked Gilbert up. 


End file.
